


angel of small death and the codeine scene

by landymoji



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Daddy Kink, Everyone Is Gay, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Violence, boys in lingerie, it’s the mafia guys it’s gonna be a lil dark at times, so we’re gonna have some
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-15 14:12:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landymoji/pseuds/landymoji
Summary: a collection of ficlets, aka, a glimpse into the life of the american-not-so-american mobs ((hiatus; rewriting))





	1. intro. nolan

**Author's Note:**

> so i got my shit together and wrote the mob au i wanted to see in the world. go easy, as it is my first fic  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"toying somewhere between love and abuse_   
>  _calling to join them the wretched and joyful_   
>  _shaking the wings of their terrible youths" -angel of small death and the codeine scene, hozier_

**Before**

Nolan knew better. He’s not a user—he sticks to his own vices of anonymous sex and vodka tonics—so getting his buddy’s drugs makes no real sense. It’s not something that crosses his mind at the time.

18-year-old Nolan has grown up on the streets of Philadelphia. He knows the cracks in the sidewalks, and where the dealers hang out on weekdays. The weighty dirty money in his back pocket doesn’t leave his conscious mind.

"Man, just get the coke,” Evan coughs a laugh from the smoke clouding the room. Nolan says no, many times even. He ponders the guy’s understanding of the word. “Look, if I give you the money will you do it?” Evan attempts to compromise. Nolan thought he was smarter than he was when he agreed. He doesn’t even like Evan. The guy only hits him up when he’s higher than the clouds and his dick’s hard, but something in the charming scarlet curls and stoned smile makes Nolan mutter, “sure, dude, whatever.” He rolls himself off the cigarette and mutt-scented couch to put pants on. Evan wolf-whistles at him and takes another hit.

Nolan’s never been able to stand his own ground.

 

* * *

 

Getting the drugs is easy but being held at gunpoint by a kid from middle school hockey camp is slightly more pressuring.

“You from Pittsburgh?” TK (he thinks, it’s hard to tell under dim streetlights and a hoodie) presses. The feeling of the pistol’s aim is weighty against his chest.

“No, dude, I live next door,” Nolan offers the most plausible sentence he can think of in the moment. TK stares perplexed. Nolan figures he might as well be shot for such a stupid answer, before the familiarity on TK’s face sets in.

“What the fuck, Patrick,” TK sighs, as if the situation is stressful for _him_. He eventually lowers the gun and rubs at his face, tugging his eyebrow piercing. The second-hand stoned part of Nolan points out how much hotter Konecny has gotten since middle school. Nolan’s always had a thing for assholes of men.

“You gotta come with us, dude,” TK decides after addressing the circumstances. Nolan is about to ask the big “why”, when he turns around to the sound of voices. It’s far too dark for details—for that Nolan is thankful— but his head supplies him with what the scene probably looks like. He hadn’t heard a gunshot or even a scream, so for all he knows the man crumpled in the street could have been there the whole time, asleep in the commotion.

“Haven’t done that in a while,” a voice chuckles dryly. “Like slicing open a pig.” Nolan doesn’t have time to force himself not to puke before TK is pulling him into the van he had made note of earlier. _I must be very high _, Nolan reflects as messy hands blindfold him in the middle seat of the vehicle. The dramatic tone of it all makes him giggle spontaneously. He knows any question he asks will be ignored, he’s seen enough 90s crime shows to even attempt. Nothing makes sense, and the van smells like something musty he’s not familiar with, but he’s uncharacteristically content. At least he knows TK, even if he was a puck-hogging dick at camp. He allows his head to fall back against the seat. Having two warm bodies on either side of him isn’t so terrible.__

 

* * *

 

  

The room he’s placed in is faintly lit and even more sparsely decorated. They don’t bother handcuffing him, perhaps not worried they couldn’t take him if he ran. Fair enough. A ginger man orders him to take a seat, but the intended intimidation is faltered by the man’s serious lack of teeth. The door that matches the one on the other side of the room is opened, allowing a much shorter but substantially more impressive-looking ginger man in.

 

“I have a proprosition for you,” The man announces with no introduction. “I see you’re homeless.”

 

“No, I’m not,” Nolan defends, shrinking into the plush couch. The man drags up a chair and sits, arms folded over the backrest.

 

“Your clothes aren’t yours, nor have they been changed in at least a day,” The man starts. “Your shoes are falling apart, and your hair is greasy but I’m assuming that’s normal for you,” he quips. Nolan doesn’t reply, and telling by the man’s sharp smirk he knows he won.

 

“And your record says you’re a runaway.”

 

“How do you know this?” Nolan questions. He feels as if he’s sitting naked and exposed in front of this stranger.

 

“I know a few things about a lot of things,” the man supplies. “So back to our deal.” The man stands and flips the chair around to face Nolan. “I make sure you’re kept alive; apartment, minimum wage job, Trader Joe’s membership card, all of that,” He explains. “And you forget everything you saw tonight.”

 

“Why would I go to the cops anyway? What would I tell them? That I was buying cocaine when I saw some guys kill a man? Easy deal,” Nolan chimes.

 

“Knew you were a smart kid,” The man says to Nolan. “I’m done here,” He states into the air. The men from earlier crowd the room, ushering Nolan away. When he turns back, it’s empty.

“I’ll show you to your new apartment,” TK smirks, throwing his arm around Nolan.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**A Year Later**

 

 _If I bang my head against the window enough_ , Nolan thinks, _maybe they’ll say I’m too ill to be charged with theft_. It’s a useless thought, but it’s something to take his mind off the ache in his arms and the chaffing on the cuffs on his wrists. He sees the guys he was with being led out of the jewelry store in the same manner he was. He takes his final shot of rebellion and leans his head out of the cop car’s window.

 

“Hey!” He shouts at his arresting officer. “If I suck your dick, will you let me out?” He receives no reply, so he tries again.

 

“You’ve already cuffed me, why don’t we get this show on the road, eh?” He provokes.

 

The officer ends up taking him to a holding cell.

 

Sitting in a holding cell waiting for his bail, Nolan doesn’t meet Pekka—the crime lord of Nashville— himself, only one of his guys in Philadelphia at the time to work out a deal with an officer. G caught word of the kid he’s buying off being arrested and needed to take immediate action before the kid spills.

 

The memory of the room he was held in a full year ago feels way too fresh. It’s the same routine: no cuffs, only sitting for 30 minutes until the man walks in. He pulls at the couch’s threading to kill time, yearning for a lighter to burn the strings off. He’s snapped out of thought when the dreadful sounding door swings open.

 

The man’s curls are shorter and his beard is fuller, but he holds the same gait and cold sober expression. Nolan is hit with déjà vu as the man turns his chair backward and drapes his hands across the back.

 

“You robbed a jewelry store,” The man deadpans. It’s not a question.

 

Nolan nods.

 

“What are you, seventeen?”

 

“Nineteen,” Nolan corrects, “Sir.”

 

The man’s eyebrows lift in the slightest.

 

“You fucked up, kid,” The man emphasizes the ‘kid,” making Nolan cringe. He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes wander elsewhere. “Welcome to the team.”

 


	2. intro. andre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Innocent died screaming, honey ask me I should know ___  
>  _I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door" -from eden, hozier ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains obvious sketchy actions bc i'm not the queen of writing subtlety in fics, or writing at all

Working at the bar has become a mindless mechanical routine. He pours drinks, smiles, and remember the regulars who tip well. It’s not that Andre doesn’t like his job, it’s just not the environment he wants to be in. These types of people have money and vacations to Cabo and never even say thank you when Andre serves them their dirty Martinis. He’s just a college kid, the absolute least they could do for him is say thank you.

He has regulars that he enjoys the company of; usually, old men that have lost their wives. They tell him far too detailed stories of their war days and ask where he’s from when they hear his accent. He doesn’t understand why they always guess Russia ‘or somewhere over there.’

He’s recently acquired a new regular: a younger guy than he’s used to, with a sobering attitude and a beard Burkie only wishes he could grow. He’s insanely attractive, Andre will admit, but maybe that’s because he never ‘gets some’ as his roommate says.  This man doesn’t talk to him much and Andre catches himself wishing he would. He only orders a Brandy—neat—and replies “fine” when Andre asks how he is today. Occasionally the man has visitors, but they never seem like friends. The other man (usually; sometimes it’s a woman) takes a seat and they chat quietly for a while, always pausing the conversation when Andre asks if they want another drink. They end up taking the conversation outside and Andre doesn’t see the man again until a couple of days later.

The man keeps coming in for months, sometimes on continuous days and sometimes he's missing for a week. Andre is well attracted to him and he makes it shown, slipping his number on a napkin. Braden never calls or texts him, even on the nights Andre spends pulling all-nighters because he's too busy staring at his phone waiting than working. Maybe the guy is thick-headed, which wouldn’t be surprising with how long it took him to notice Andre was constantly hitting on him. He even started keeping the top button of his dress shirt open in attempt to grab his attention. Or maybe he simply forgot he even had his number. They don’t text, but Braden does come into the bar with more personality when talking to the bartender. He rarely tells stories about himself, but he's an active listener. Andre sits with him during his very short breaks and they discuss hockey and Andre talks about Sweden and how he ended up in Washington, D.C.

“I’m here for school,” Andre explained. “Cultural studies.”

Braden acknowledges him with a distant hum and takes a long, copious swig.

“Would you like to go out with me?” Braden asks.

Andre’s co-worker calls him hastily from the other side of the bar.

“You mean like a date?” Andre questions after returning in front of Braden.

Braden’s pursed lips turn up to a sly smirk. “Yes, Andre, a date.”

He agrees with all the enthusiasm he has.

 

* * *

 

 

Andre frets over what to wear two hours before the date.

“Just text the guy and ask, Christ, I hear you pacing from here,” his roommate shouts from the kitchen area.

“That would be a good idea if I had his number,” Andre yells back. His roommate shows up in the doorway of his bedroom.

“You’re going on a date with a guy whose number you don’t even have,” His roommate starts with eyes wide in disbelief, “at 9 pm.”

“If he was dangerous he would have taken me out weeks ago,” Andre reassured, pulling a too small shirt over his head. “Now get out of my room, I have to change.”

 He spends the next twenty minutes deciding if he should wear his nice underwear in case it’s going to be _that_ kind of date. He settles on a casual look with dark jeans and a sweater, in hope for the best.

In the end, it works perfectly because Andre drips his ice cream on his sweater. He made it almost the whole date without embarrassing himself, even after lobster cargot and a salad drenched in dressing, but he makes a mess with ice cream. Braden laughs—genuinely laughs—at him wiping frantically at his chest.

“Look,” Braden grabs the napkin from his useless hands. “Dab, don’t wipe. It only makes the stain worse. Trust me,” he adds.

The park is still and Andre is self-conscious of his breathing with Braden's face so close to his. He stares at Braden’s eyelashes and blade-sharp jawline, mapping it while he cleans his sweater. Braden must feel his gaze because he looks up and presses his lips against Andre’s. Andre hasn’t kissed anyone in a while, but the action comes back to him almost immediately after the initial shock. Braden presses his hand to Andre’s cheek and he melts into it. Braden is a fantastic kisser. He loops his hand around Andre's neck to feel of the curls resting there like he knew beforehand exactly what Andre likes. The setting is intimate for the middle of a downtown Washington park, with the hushed sounds of the city at midnight and lips against lips. It’s a kiss from the movies until Braden pulls back at the sound of his phone vibrating.

“I have to take you home,” he sighs.

“Oh, I can’t… I’ve never—“Andre stutters with flushed cheeks.

“No, no,” Braden reaffirms with his hands tight on Andre’s waist. “I’ll drop you off at your apartment. Let me take this call, I’ll be right back.”

Andre tries not to show his relief when he doesn’t have to say he’s never done this before.

Braden takes the call out of earshot, but his anger is prominent from the other side of the fountain. He speaks in short, clipped sentences and doesn’t allow his voice to be raised at the person on the other side. The call only lasts a minute, but Braden apologizes as if Andre was left for hours.

The drive through town is silent and Andre takes time to realize how wealthy this man is, as they had a $200 dinner in casual wear and are now riding in Braden's clean Mercedes. His cheeks flame at the thought of what Braden might have in store for their next possible outing. A side of him can't help stealing glances at his date’s stone-cold expression and wonder what happened during that phone call to cause a full 180 mood change.

Braden doesn’t say goodbye at Andre's apartment door, but he does grab him by the chin to bring him in for another, softer and sweeter kiss.

“Thank you,” he says. 

Andre doesn’t understand what he's being thanked for, but he smiles and says goodnight.

 

* * *

 

 

 “Thank fuck, you’re back,” His roommate sighs in relief. His glasses are uneven on his face and his hair is tousled, so he couldn’t have been worried enough to not fall asleep on the couch.

Andre toes his shoes off, tossing his jacket in a random direction. Exhaustion hit him as he walked through the door and reflects on the night. He says goodnight to his roommate who was already dozing off too much to have a decent conversation and trails off to bed. Setting his alarm, he sees he has a message from an unknown number: _see you tomorrow andre_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: intro. juuse! tumblr squad has already seen the basics of the angst but i'm aiming for maybe 1.5-2k??


	3. intro. juuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It looks ugly ___  
>  _but it's clean" -cherry wine, hozier ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings and spoilers at the end. enjoy until part 2!

Juuse drags his dirty sneakers against the grey wall, leaving disregardful scuff marks across it and peeled paint hanging by a fiber. Elias gossips to no end about his life in school: who he got to make out with on a dare, what classes he’s bombing already, the usual shit Juuse cares nothing about. He leans further back on the couch, so his head is dangling off the edge and his heels are aligned with the wall. He puts his earbud back in when Elias turns away.

The garage door grinds open and sheds light at the other end of the room, shutting them both up with the no speaking rule applied. It’s not unusual to see men walk through that door tattered and covered in blood that may or may not be theirs, but it’s a rare sight anyone is ever _attractive_ in the condition of beat to hell.

The initial man through the utility door is significantly younger than most of the job leaders Juuse sees around his family’s place. He’s unnervingly tall —that much is obvious— with a nasty drying cut above his blood-stained eyebrow that could have been done via hockey stick, Juuse judges. He stares from his upside-down post on the loveseat, content with his obvious ogling at one of his dad’s men. He’s untouchable here anyway.

The blond man walks to the warehouse’s oversized sink next to the loveseat, paying Juuse none of his much-desired attention. The man doesn’t so much as hiss at the pain washing out the cut across his face, Juuse wonders if he’s real at all. He stares at the man’s work of shaving his jaw with a straight blade.

This is a common procedure to see: Guys drag themselves to the large sink, spewing gruff curse words as they rinse the blackening blood off their arms, knives, and down the drain.

The burning scent of bleach is a smell Juuse will never get used to, even after how much he’s encountered it scrubbing blood stains off the concrete. This man does the routine as nonchalant as laundry, treating the bleach as water cleaning his blade.

The barely visible lines between his eyebrows show his age along with the beard, but even that is an easy ten years younger than most men Juuse sees here. He’s no stranger to the business, even as visibly young as he is, but he’s a stranger to Juuse and remains that way when he trails off to the back room.

 

* * *

 

Juuse spends his last months as a 17-year-old lawfully wasted and never alone. Nearing 18, his family sat him down to discuss his role in the business:

 

  1. Run missions as directed.



 

  1. Count money. A dollar short could be someone’s life.



 

  1. Listen in meetings.



 

  1. Always keep your mouth shut. If something happens with law enforcement, stay silent and someone will get you. Don't release any personal information to anyone.



 

Juuse couldn’t help but snort at how he missed “keeping his mouth shut” quite literally.

 

 It’s a quick discovery finding out meetings to dispute who fucked who over and the inflating price in quality guns are the same amount of boring as regular office meetings. He sits in his father-assigned seat, coffee in hand, and listens as told.

Juuse’s father introduces the man Juuse watched a year ago — _Pekka Rinne_ — as the new head of the Nashville syndicate, a long distance from their home here in Finland. He speaks in the way he cleans knives, efficiently and effortlessly. He has a voice that demands everyone watches him with their full undivided attention. Juuse unabashedly wonders where he’s staying tonight, his current hookup be damned.

It’s clear Pekka is highly respected by the men sitting around the boardroom. His comments and opinions are noted, even by Juuse’s father who is known to listen to no one. Juuse pays attention as he places his palm flat on the wooden table when he’s speaking, a simple sign of dominance.

Juuse broke the third rule already.

 

 He lets himself linger in the room until he’s behind Pekka.

“Hello,” Pekka greets with a friendly grin as he holds the door open for Juuse. He makes it easy for Juuse to put on his best face. This part is his expertise.

“You are?” He holds his hand out for Juuse to shake.

“Juuse Saros.” He takes his hand. Fourth rule broken.

“A new Saros around here,” Pekka thinks aloud, “I didn’t know the Family was hiding a pretty one.”

Juuse’s cheeks heat up along with the rest of his body. He doesn’t know how to respond, but Pekka continues the conversation like a teacher testing Juuse on his note taking abilities during the meeting. Juuse asks how he got to Nashville, and Pekka tells him.

”I had a promotion,” Pekka says with the biggest shit-eating grin.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t become head of our second largest crime syndicate with a ‘promotion.’”

 

Juuse doesn’t realize he’s followed Pekka all the way to his rental car until he’s saying, “Join me at the hotel bar?”

Juuse takes him up on the offer and Pekka walks around the car to open his door. He sends a quick _don’t wait up_ text to his boyfriend. The 23-year-old never cared for him.

 

* * *

 

 

Pekka listens to him babble in delight about his teen stories and experiences, letting Juuse talk for as long as his heart desires. Pekka sips his drinks slow and steady and cuts Juuse off before he becomes too inebriated and starts tilting off the cushioned stool. He catches onto Juuse’s wandering hand on his thigh and slowed blinks.

“Minibar upstairs?”

 

 

“Kiss me,” Juuse demands as soon as he shuts the room door behind him.

Pekka continues to discard his suit jacket without a word and Juuse questions if he had even heard him. Surely he said it aloud.

Pekka folds his jacket across the back of the chair and unbuttons his cufflinks, facing Juuse now.

“Well, come here, baby.”

Juuse wastes no time crossing the room to him. Pekka pauses the kinetic energy, taking his time to look him in the eye and grip his face before kissing Juuse in the gentlest and sexiest way he’s ever been kissed.

His hands are large enough to fit around Juuse’s hipbones, circling the soft skin with his thumb while he marks up Juuse's jawline.

Juuse’s been in some state of hard since Pekka led him into the elevator with a hand covering the small of his back. They were alone so Juuse let his mind wander to Pekka’s hands and biceps, wondering if he could hold him up against the elevator wall and access his ass right there.

 

 

Sex has always been good for him. His energy and knack for blowjobs gets him the bare minimum of his wants and needs, but he’s never had a partner eat him out until he's left quivering and crying like Pekka did. He came once before the older man had even removed his boxers.

Pekka fucks him at his own pace, it’s heavily overstimulating the way Pekka focuses so intensely on one task at a time, but he’s taken care of in a way he’s never been. His tears and sweat are wiped and Pekka never lets his hair get in his face and everything is _so, so good._

 

 

The tenderness is broken the moment Pekka leaves the warmth of Juuse’s body and the bed to shower or piss or whatever and Juuse breaks at the realization of what he’s just done.

Pekka rushes out of the bathroom like a parent in aid after hearing his sudden choked sobs and finds him attempting to cover the pathetic sounds with his face in the sheets. The reassurance of Pekka only makes him cry harder, mixing his tears with the water dripping from Pekka’s wet hair onto his shoulder. The man is soaking wet from taking no time to towel dry after showering, but Juuse curls into his arms anyway.

“Baby, you have to tell me what’s wrong,” Pekka stresses the words and Juuse stresses his heart.

He can’t find many other words to say than “ _I’m sorry_ ” and “ _please don’t tell_ ,” but somewhere in that Pekka stitches the details together. 

“Juuse, how old are you?” He approaches the question with caution. His voice is holding steady, but Juuse feels the stiffening muscles in his shoulder.

It's weak and nearly inaudible from Juuse's broken voice, but Pekka hears it clear as day. “Seventeen.”

 

Pekka releases him from his hold and redresses in the bathroom, leaving Juuse alone for much longer than he feels safe with under circumstances. The moment he returns from the bathroom to grab his jacket parallels the one from earlier, only in a darker light. Pekka takes a moment for himself to mutter a harsh “ _goddamn it_ ” and pull his thoughts together along with his hair.

“Get dressed, please.” He remains facing the wall that the desk is against.

“You don’t have to turn away, like you weren't inside me twenty minutes ago,” Juuse quips out of sheer idiocy.

“I could be _killed,_ Juuse. Do you understand?” Pekka seethes. He doesn’t yell, but Juuse flinches from his place on the bed. Pekka catches the motion, returning to sit next to him. That isn’t his problem today.

“I'm twenty-nine, and I bought you drinks and then brought you to my room to have sex,” He ensures Juuse is looking at him directly. “Do you know how terrible that sounds? How terrible _it is_ _?_   I used to work with your father, for fucks sake.” He ponders on the topic of Juuse' family, every deed he's done for them would immediately be eradicated if they found out.

The more Pekka observes the boy sobbing into his bedsheets, the more signs he sees he should have caught from the beginning. Juuse’s not done growing for one, at the maybe 5’9” height he stands now. Most of all, he should have known from previous encounters with Juuse’s father that he had an eldest son.

“It’s legal,” Juuse attempts redeeming himself. His voice is too small and he knows he’s lost the fight, but he’ll take anything to stop the tears from falling and his fidgeting hands.

“Just because it’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s right, Juuse.”

Pekka wipes his tired eyes and grabs his keys to take the boy back home.

 

The car ride is silent, save Juuse’s sporadic sniffles and coughs. Pekka refuses to speak of the topic while leaving Juuse at the back door of his family's place, knowing as soon as he opens his mouth he’d have to deal with the kid crying again.

"Will you ever come back?" Juuse asks before shutting the car door. He looks millions of times smaller than he did at their meeting.

Pekka doesn't know. Probably since Finland's his home and he will always have business here, like it or not.

"No."

He limits his hookups to people he knows for a reason: those guys have just as much to lose as him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> juuse is 17 in this chapter and he hooks up with pekka who is 29  
> it's also heavily implied juuse's had sex with older guys before and the age of consent in finland is 16


	4. intro. juuse part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I'll give you everything I have_   
>  _I'll teach you everything I know..._   
>  _I will soften every edge_   
>  _I'll hold the world to its best_   
>  _And I'll do better” - light, sleeping at last_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of y’all who know i have a slight trigger finger for angst

Juuse woke up with the knowledge of two things: A) it smells terrible, 2) he was drugged.  
He knew what happened instantly—GHB has a horrible, salty taste—but by then, there was nothing he could do about it while alone.  
He’s fully capable of going out for a drink by himself, even hold his own with a knife, but drugs weren’t something he had ever prepared for. For the first time in 3 years, he was terrified.

  
They’re undoubtedly in a vehicle when they hit a pothole and Juuse bangs his head against the floorboard hard enough to bruise. He’s also handcuffed, telling by the ache in his shoulders and the heavy clack of metal. Light hits his eyes, making him flinch further into the floor trying to cover his face. _They were in a tunnel._  
The sudden daylight strikes an instant migraine that urges him to go back to sleep, so he does.

* * *

 The second awakening was a lot more rude than the first, starting with the gun jabbing his shoulder and ending with being more-so dragged into a storm cellar because his legs lost corporation after being cramped for who knows how long.  
The drugs have eased, allowing him to think more clearly than the time before. He doesn’t know where he is; the migraine says it’s too loud and the sun is too bright, but that dims once he’s pulled through a door.  
The dread sets in when his eyes adjust and he focuses on the morbidly clinical set-up for an execution: armed men in all corners, a single chair in the middle of the room (but dust outlines where furniture has been), and an assortment table of dangerous household items made weapons. He drags his feet in an attempt to fight the men holding his arms, and when that fails, he starts crying terrible ” _no_ ”s. There are so many things he doesn’t understand. He’s only just turned 20 and living as far away from his family’s lifestyle as possible, keeping his hands and record clean. The only cogent reason for him to be killed would be a failed attempt to retaliate.   
The persistent sobbing throws some of the men off guard, unable to determine if it’s a façade or if he’s genuinely afraid. His cries are choked and humiliating when the fabric covers his eyes and his handcuffs are reattached to the chair. Moments pass where the fear turns into submission, leaving his head low and cheeks tear-stained while he waits.  
The door opening forces a shudder through him. He’s regained enough composure to comprehend the clipped English being spoken around him, and he pulls a distinct accent out of the mass of voices.  
” _Pekka_ ,” he pleads with the last ounce of hope he’s not going to die alone.  
The room erupts into confused whispers and a single pair of heavy footsteps start towards him. He pulls back from the hand around his blindfold, yanking it off his face. The same concerned pair of eyes he saw three years ago are staring back at him now.  
Pekka’s yelling now, not at Juuse but at the men who brought him here. It’s too overwhelming, he catches the overused words ”fuck” and ”idiots” then his native language is directed towards him.  
”It’s okay Juuse, let me uncuff you,” Pekka addresses him with gentle hands to his trembling arms. He repeats the affirmations until Juuse’s tears have dried and he’s unrestrained.  
Juuse looks at his surroundings now that he’s able to. None of the guys are inexperienced by Juuse’s judgment, but they all seem thoroughly bewildered at the scene unfolding. Pekka pays them no further attention while he continues to direct towards Juuse.  
”Let’s get you cleaned up and some food, alright? Then I’ll explain.”

* * *

 ”You’re not supposed to be here,” Pekka clarifies. Juuse picks at his meatballs from the kitchen counter. Pekka cleaned him up as well as he could without being invasive, wiping his face and neck mostly, then offered some fresh clothes. “You and Kev are around the same size,” he said handing the long sleeve sporting a hockey team logo to Juuse. He’s too traumatized to speak even if he wanted to, so he replies in nods and shaking his head.  
”A mole infiltrated our system and returned to Finland, where he’s pretending to work for your father but actually reporting to Chicago. My guys here knew where he’d be in Finland, so they were tasked to bring him back here. They had the basic information correct, but somehow ended up with you in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Pekka leans his palms back against the counter facing Juuse, who has finished his second serving.  
“I want you to stay here,” he continues, “for a few days, at least until this clears up.”  
Juuse silently agrees, way too exhausted mentally and physically to travel back home if he’s in presumed Nashville.  
The oven clock reads 5pm, but Pekka insists he goes to bed. He offers his room for Juuse’s stay; even being the crime lord of Nashville, he has a good heart.

* * *

 Juuse wakes at 4:45 naturally. Pekka’s silky sheets are nearly enough to pull him back to sleep, but his mind is too restless and his stomach growls. He explores the quarters of Pekka’s bedroom—fit for a bachelor king with an extravagant custom sized bed and a built-in cigar humidor on the wall that doesn’t look opened that often. The other side houses a well-used sitting area scattered in books on various topics, from home décor Ikea catalogs to cookbooks to poetry. After skimming through the noted pages, Juuse is left wondering how he works such domesticity into the forever lifestyle of the mafia.  
Juuse pads down the hallway as quietly as possible, unsure of what’s behind the rest of the doors. His sweatpants were discarded sometime in the night when he got too hot, but the cool air outside of the bedroom makes him tug his sleeves down to his hands.  
He startles when he turns the corner into the main living room. Pekka’s already awake, sipping his coffee and squinting at a paper in hand. He smiles at Juuse’s presence.  
” _Hyvää huomenta_. I left my reading glasses on the nightstand but I didn’t want to wake you,” he says but makes no effort getting up to retrieve them.  
”Would you like coffee? Tea?” He proposes, already making his way to the coffee bar.  
The rising sun can do wonders for a person. Pekka’s golden in the morning light, hair ruffled and eyes gentle. He’s been so kind, Juuse feels bad for searching his room.  
“I looked at your things,” He admits sheepishly while Pekka pours his tea.  
“Did you?” He doesn’t sound too concerned, only curious.  
“Just your books.” Pekka stays silent as he hands Juuse the mug, forcing him to continue speaking. “How do you live such a peaceful life?”  
“I don’t think my life is peaceful,” Pekka admitted. “But I do try to make it easier to bear. You can’t let things get to you like an average person, but you still need something to keep you human whether it’s books or cooking or love. Someone like Giroux doesn’t have that luxury I have.”  
Juuse understood in an unconscious way he’s known all his life. He’s kept his hands clean this long only because he didn’t want to be the person his father is; getting wasted with strangers and sleeping around was his way of keeping his life simple and his mind young, but going back to that isn’t an option.  
“Pekka.”  
Pekka hums in response. He almost gives Juuse anxiety they way he’s so attentive when listening.  
“Let me stay here,” Juuse blurts. He feels so small like a child demanding for something, but his voice comes out strong. “I’m good with money, I prefer not to use guns but I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” he pleads. ”I’ll be good.”  
Pekka ponders his proposition for a minute that makes Juuse feel like he’s been burning up for hours.  
“I’ll talk to your father.”  
“I’m 20, that’s unnecessary,” Juuse insists. He doesn’t need _permission_ to leave home.  
Pekka sets his mug of cold coffee on the couch’s side table and stands.  
“Why do you want to stay here? Because if—,” Pekka starts.  
”That’s not me anymore, please give me the chance to grow up.”  
Juuse knows his family wouldn’t do shit to Pekka if he stayed in Nashville, maybe they’d even be glad he stayed with the mob family ties. Pekka’s thinking process contains lots of sighs and rubbing his hands through his hair.  
“Okay,” Pekka finally agrees, “You’ll stay for a week then we’ll talk about it again. Until then, Kev needs a roommate.”

* * *

Rooming with Kevin is fine if you like the filthy college dorm type. Juuse discovers on the second night that the House is a charming-from-the-outside farmhouse on the outskirts of Nashville. Pekka has the master bedroom on the ground floor while the rest of the boys are upstairs, except for RyJo who has a separate suite. Juuse doesn’t think it’s fair Roman gets his own room.

”He’s with someone who’s gone, don’t mention it,” Arvi informs him with warning.  
“Like dead?” Juuse whispers.  
“Might as well be,” someone else, probably Joey, mumbles from the side.  
Juuse doesn’t have to mention it because Roman is more than willing to talk about his very-much-alive beau, Shea. It’s bittersweet, how in love he is but how sad he is at the same time. Between all of the guys sitting around the living area, they talk about love and sex enough to make Juuse’s toes curl into the couch under him. Juuse doesn’t see how love is possible in their world.

* * *

It’s 11 and Pekka is still gone. He told them not to wait up for him when he left at 8, but the guys let Juuse know the unofficial house rule: at least one person is in charge of waiting up if someone is out of the House, but if Pekka leaves most of them take advantage of the time to stay up past their designated “bedtimes”. Juuse doesn’t know and doesn’t want to ask why Filip and Calle giggle on the loveseat across the room.

An hour later, the main door clicks unlocked and Pekka walks through, going straight to his room with determination and closing the door behind.  
”Goodnight!” Kev yells at him across the house with his same cheerful smile. They collectively climb the stairs, pushing and pulling and laughing until they disperse to their respective rooms. Juuse allows himself to longingly stare at Filip’s hand in Calle’s back pocket as they fumble into their shared room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> juuse’s got a crush! but not on who you’d think


End file.
